


we bleed the same

by cyanica



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blood, Child Loss, Dean Winchester Whump, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt No Comfort, Mild Gore, Miscarriage, Mpreg, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Pregnant Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Psychological Trauma, Stillbirth, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:53:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24439249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyanica/pseuds/cyanica
Summary: It all made sense to Dean in his 5AM exhausted delirium. Letting his family die, murdering the people he loved, had just become a part of who he was. His hands stained the Godforsaken things he cared about with their own blood, and a month ago it was Dad’s, tomorrow Sammy’s, and tonight: his unborn child’s.Or Dean’s thighs are slick with blood, he’s losing something he never knew he had until he didn’t, and he learns that what dies doesn’t stay dead, what shouldn’t exist lives, and what should, doesn’t.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 59





	we bleed the same

**Author's Note:**

> set in season 2 after john dies, but before dean tells sam about the whole ‘if you can’t save your brother, kill him’ shit.
> 
> i may or may not have an obsession with dean!mpreg angsty fics, leave me alone.
> 
> read tags for warnings.
> 
> title from ‘where’s my love’ - syml

“No...” Dean was bleeding, but he had this theory that –

There was this _being_ – smothering, inhuman, infinite – during the wake of 5AM’s twilight. It was a feeling that consumed Dean’s cold and deadened body and sunk it into the fiery smithereens of the Earth as if he had the inability to catch himself falling into that twisted, paradoxal sensation before one fell asleep, leaving his body in a state of something unworldly.

This sucken, drowned and limbo-ish state of the universe he found himself in – this _inbetween_ of night and day, of luna and sol, existence and not – was entrapment, Dean came to realise.

Escaping from where the soul went during sleep, was known as waking up from a dream – a nightmare.

It left him terrified, enslaved by his own paralysis in the mere milliseconds where the subconscious mind and the fabric of reality blended into one and took control over everything around him. His senses diminished, the world crumbled at the seams, and his brain shattered into insignificant ephemeral insanity because he couldn’t distinguish between the tangibility of the flames alight upon the ceiling that burned chunks of charred flesh from his bleeding mother; or between the sting and forceful grip threatening to break apart his shoulder at the hands of his own brother, who screamed and shook him as if he were dying and falling apart into fragments that slipped through his fingers like blood and water.

In the time of transient twilight where the universe hadn’t quite assembled meaning yet, and the passage of time was nonexistent, he thought he could be.

But –

– Escaping from where the soul went as it eternally fell just before the body drifted into unconsciousness, was rather different.

It was as if he was unable to possess the ability to catch himself before he took the swan dive into oblivion, and as result, was left floating down a rabbit hole into the unknown.

And yet, instead of floating, Dean was _sinking_ . He plummeted down towards the depths of the universe in petrified agony, every inch of his skin felt the sensation of solidified gravity – _and,_ God _, he couldn’t stop it. No one could. Sam?!_ –, and his bloodied mouth was constantly fixated in a silent scream that felt so pathetically foreign to him, it was alien.

– Because he was Dean Winchester and he should be able to complete the insignificantly mundane, immensely _human_ task of stopping himself from falling.

Dean wondered in vague awareness that, perhaps if he were able to catch himself, this particular 5AM would seize to exist. Perhaps, for all those weeks and dawns and twilight 5AMs before this one, if he weren’t so weak as to stare at moulding ceilings with bloodshot, black eyes until the alarm clock blared it’s final warning, he would’ve been saved. If he hadn’t woken up tearing his vocal cords into bloody messes of human flesh while drowning in the morning’s melancholy intoxication until Sam ripped the booze from his drenched lips and smashed it against the drywall beside him, would he still be condoned _here?_ – a man sentenced to bare witness upon the desolation of his universe, while being hanged from the gallows of which he built.

Maybe it was just the _rules of the universe_ , Dean decided, and free will was an illusion.

It was _the rules_ that decided, here Dean was: some fucked-up, lost cause of a twenty-seven year old who had a selfish sacrificial philosophy when it came to the concept of family, and the ironically evil promise of killing his demonically poisoned brother to obey his father who sold his soul for Dean’s and now _rots_ in Hell because of it.

It was an ironically evil contraction to the life – his _child_ – he’d never known existed, that now bled out from inside him.

Yet, in a sick way, it made sense to Dean in his 5AM exhausted delirium. Letting his family die, _murdering_ the people he loved, had just become a part of who he was. His hands stained the Godforsaken things he cared about with their own blood, and a month ago it was Dad’s, tomorrow Sammy’s, and tonight: his unborn child’s.

It was _the rules_ that decided what died didn’t stay dead – and new to the knowledge of Dean Winchester, in some juxtaposingly unexplainable but unsurprisingly numb kind of way: what shouldn’t exist lives, and what should, _dies_.

– Because here he was, Dean Winchester, lying like an abandoned roadkill upon the floor of some pay-by-the-hour motel room in some fuckforsaken city in some fuckforsaken state, and bleeding.

Here he was, amongst pools of his own smeared blood that was slashed in chaotic streaks against the cold, off-white tiles. The scent of it assaulted his nostrils and reeked of some putrid oxymoron of vital life twisted into a being _beyond_ death. The stench of agony was so vivid, he could even _taste_ it on the tip of his tongue as if the blood was drowning him in that rich copper pungency. The pure essence of rotten metallic iron drifted in and out and down the sides of his bare legs like ink down a canvas, and too many times in this violent haze of dawned twilight had the sensation of embodying an overwhelming _living death_ caused him to vomit.

Here he was, lying against a bathtub on the tainted, poisoned tiles of a disgusting motel room at 5AM, and existing in the same way someone would who had never made it from the gallows – the same way his father had, before he collapsed into eternal damnation upon the floor of a hospital. The same way his mother had, before she burned upon the ceiling and was consumed by the sky.

Here Dean was, letting but another forsaken thing that he loved die – perish. _Rot_ . Rot from his broken flesh of a human body, bleed out in a blur of white-pain that had Dean curled and unmoving, withering from his violent insides that were supposed to encase and protect it. _Rot_ and seep through his skin and onto tiles, like the things in Dean’s life that he let seep through his fingers – the things that were deemed dead at the hands of the universe for no more reason than Dean loved them so.

“No, no, no…” Dean whimpered in a voice that didn’t sound like his own. It was breathy, small and raw in a way that a scream would sound. The room wasn’t cold – scorching mid-July heat reigned high up into the air like smothering pollution, even in the near-morning hours – but Dean was shivering. He couldn’t keep his legs from jolting every few seconds with radiating electricity and stop the icy frost that bled down into his veins, making his organs shrivel in on themselves, and fill his gut with nausea.

Though Dean senses were fading back and forth like flickering starlight, he was vaguely aware of his body wrapping an arm around his abused stomach. Each fibre of flesh was threatening to destroy each other in meaningless self mutilation, while his other hand reached to hold onto something – _anything_. He found his hand had stretched out, almost as if to beg, for perhaps a father that would ascend from the abyss and cradle his tainted and poisonous fuck-up of a son, the way John would’ve held a helpless child – a stranger he’s just saved the life of.

Outside, the willow trees danced in the dark early sunrise, their branches shaped like arms that were reached out towards the sky as if begging for forgiveness, and Dean squirmed under the sight. The trees and sky never responded with so much as a rumble on this hot, summer dawn, but he’d never felt so exposed under the scrutiny of the morn’s arising daybreak.

His hand met with that sickening, crimson warmth at the base of his thighs, just as another cramp tore through his abdomen like the organ was ripping itself apart, and Dean couldn’t help it – a wet sob spilt past his lips, and then he was crying. He mourned for it all – for what should have stayed dead, and for what didn’t. For the father he had his whole life, and the child he hadn’t yet known existed until it didn’t.

Dim, yellow light flooded into the room like it was scrutinising Dean’s small and curled form under more intensity than the twilight dawn outside, illuminating the blood and sin’s of Dean Winchester as if they couldn’t ever be erased now. The dream-like fog and the sensation of falling – whether asleep or apart – was ripped from Dean like the air had been pulled from his lungs, and suddenly everything solidified.

Sam was a blinding silhouette in the doorway, unable to distinguish as Dean’s eyes were assaulted from the sickening, pale amber glow that was let in from the lamp upon the nightstand. The light was a dam that broke his momentarily incomprehensibility, and so lucidity drowned Dean in rich, suffocating ways.

“Oh my God! Dean!”

“Get out!” He screamed, because Sam had made it real. He’d bared witness to the sins Dean couldn’t ever atone for, to the lives he couldn’t save and the overall chaotic tragedy that was Dean’s existence falling in every way possible – and, _God_ , there were just some things that Sam couldn’t fix.

He didn’t deserve the redemption that Sam offered with every touch and caress and _it’s going to be okay_ , because ever smithereen made from the solar flare of his soul in his body was screaming at Sam to _run_. Run, and don’t come back to save the pitiful, insignificant, damned soul of Dean Winchester, because you got out from the ocean of unrelenting insanity that was our lives, but he is smothering your head underwater and forcing you to breathe in gallons and gallons of seawater until you sink to the bottom.

But Sam didn’t let go. He held Dean in his arms and took his older brother into his lap as if Sam didn’t know he was dooming himself right alongside his brother. He was clutching onto a grenade beneath the surface of the desolate waters in hopes it was a lifeline, and the grenade was grasping back. Dean didn’t have enough of the mental pieces together to come to a conclusion that maybe Sam just didn’t care either way. His grenade was a lifeline.

His brother had but a moment to piece the fragments of the chaotic tragedy together – the blood, the hysteria, Dean’s wrecked form upon the tiles, all made for a fuck-up jigsaw puzzle, but Sam deciphered the world around him in seconds.

“I didn’t know…” Dean sobbed into Sam’s chest, grasping fists of fabric of Sam’s t-shirt and staining it red and watery. “I’m sorry.”

“Shh, shh. I know. It’s not your fault.”

Dean’s hyperventilated gasps made his voice distorted, wavering and unrecognisable to just about anyone, Sam understood. Of course he did. So he cleaned Dean’s legs and thighs of blood, wiped down the bathroom so it hadn’t looked like a murder had been committed, and then tried carrying his almost catatonic brother to his feet. The drastic change in Dean’s demeanour was frightening, he was looking less and less like a person – more so like something dead – even second, and, God, there were just some things Sam couldn’t fix with a bloodied cloth and bottles of ten-year-old bleach.

“C’mon. I’m taking you to a hospital.” Sam said, provoking a reaction in Dean that was almost animalistic.

“No!”

“Dean, you’re having a m–“

“I know!” He shouted, coarsely and like his throat had been shredded with sandpaper. It had hunted like hell to even speak, but he couldn’t let Sam say it. He couldn’t voice the fact his father died because Dean lived, or that he was to kill Sammy if Sammy was unsaveable – and he couldn’t voice the fact that his _child_ had died because he _let it_.

Perhaps it was the sudden change in movement, or the lucidity that was brought upon by daylight, but Dean collapse in himself was his gut muscles threatening to destroy each other. Something powerful and visceral _explored_ within him, and he had cried out before the pain had even registered. The shock from numb, aching contractions transformed into what must have been gut-tearing and shredded agony, because fresh blood cascaded down his inner thighs in all its new found glory that had Dean gasping as he bled out onto the disgustingly too-bleach tiles. “‘bleeding ‘gain.”

“Yeah, Dean. C’mon, let’s go.”

“Baby–“

“The car’s fine. Don’t worry about the car, Okay? I need you to–“

“No, _my_ baby.”

And suddenly here, of all places, in the wake of aurora, one younger brother swept the older one in consuming arms, as if they were one flesh. They held each other until the day broke over the horizon in a matter of minutes, and the twilight had died alongside everything else that was destined to perish. Pastel hues from the sun’s warmth pooled feverishly into the room like a broken yolk, and nothing was the same.

It was familiar. It was home. It was family.

And that was so fucking tragedically heartbreakingly, Dean didn’t really know what do, but lie there until he couldn’t.


End file.
